


Infinity

by shannsleeve



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 02:00:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14009736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shannsleeve/pseuds/shannsleeve
Summary: Based on this prompt: Everyone is born with the number of years they'll live tattooed on their arm. You're born with the infinity sign.





	Infinity

Erik stared down at his forearm, his golden eyes tracing the dark brand against his skin. As a child, his mother had _graciously_ explained the meaning of the looping symbol - he would die on the morning of his eighth birthday.

“Just as God intended.”

The words fell from his lips, a sardonic repetition of her terribly misguided belief. Her horrified visage loomed before him as he recalled waking on that horrible day. If she had more courage, perhaps her hands would have been wrapped much more tightly around his little neck. He renounced birthdays and mothers and love ever since.

“Until Christine.”

He breathed her name into the chill air of the underground house, a prayer to the God he tried to forget, and a promise to the only true good in his life. She was fast asleep on the divan, curled in a tight ball beneath several layers of wool and satin. They’d finished their lesson early that evening but she refused to go to bed. Instead, she insisted upon reading with him by the fire until midnight had passed. Why such a darling person would ever want to keep him company was still a mystery far beyond him.

“Oui, c’est vrais…”

Her tired sigh startled him and he hastily drew his sleeve over his exposed skin. He silently observed as she burrowed deeper into the cushions and her breathing returned to a steady cadence. What must she be dreaming of? Another arduous rehearsal, perhaps. Suddenly, her little hand shot out from beneath the blankets – a reaction to some passing disturbance – before settling comfortably atop her stomach. A creeping dread filled his chest as he noticed the dark stain peeking out from the sleeve of her nightdress.

Christine never revealed what number marred her beautiful skin. It was an unspoken rule between them. He couldn’t bear to know how long she would grace his life before leaving him in infinite darkness. Her death was unfathomable, impossible. And yet…

“Erik? Are you all right?” Christine whispered, afraid to startle him but also curious as to why he was bent over her hand, almost in supplication.

He stumbled back, lips trembling behind the mask. “O-Oui, mon ange,” he answered, trying to calm his racing heart. “My apologies for disturbing you.” Without meeting her gaze, he gracefully stood and turned toward the door. A gentle tug on his sleeve stopped him.

“You saw it, didn’t you?” she said. The response was more statement than question.

“No.” And, for once, the Opera Ghost spoke the utter truth.

A palpable silence descended upon them. Neither student nor teacher dared to move, both too frightened to shatter the fragile peace of their world. For so long Death was their staunchest companion, that sadistic nomad who met them along lonely roads and dragged them through unspeakable tragedy. They despised its lingering shadow, but were unable to banish it from their lives; after all, its mark thrived upon their flesh.

It was Christine who found her courage first.

“Papa thought it was an eight,” she said hollowly. “And my mother wept for weeks after I was born.” Reluctantly, she released his sleeve to wrap her arms around her chest. “It was only after they passed that I realized their mistake.”

Erik was lost for words. This couldn’t be true! It was another trick, another farce by that omnipotent demon! God was surely laughing at him now! Damn Him! Damn the Almighty and His insatiable humor!

A slight rustle caused him to spin round, a movement borne of a lifetime of wariness. He was mildly surprised to see her staring blankly at her bare forearm. She was positioned atop the mountain of blankets and cushions, knees pulled up to her chin, every bit the frightened child that cried out in despair for the Angel of Music.

“I’m afraid, Angel,” she murmured. “I can’t spend eternity alone.”

Instantly, his fingers were woven between hers and his own sleeve pushed away from his flesh. In the dying firelight, the tarnished skin seemed to glow.

Christine gasped, her mind reeling. “Erik! But how–”

“You won’t be alone,” he said, squeezing her fingers tightly. “I will be with you.”

As the fire faded to smouldering embers, the Opera Ghost and his Angel reveled in the certainty of their forever. Death would need to continue his sorry trek without them.


End file.
